


Crowning Glory

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Hollowverse [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Domesticity, Fluff, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock, John's blog, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Sex, Teasing, Vanity, cases, life - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-03 18:14:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An experiment gone wrong results in endless amusement for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hair today...

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE thanks to doublenegativemeansyes on tumblr for doing a piece for this story. It turned out perfectly!

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

2 June

Hair Today…

Came home today to a seemingly empty house. It's always harder to tell in the summer, because I can't check and see if Sherlock's coat's missing. (By the way, Sherlock _hates_ it when it gets too warm to wear the coat – he's got no to collar to flip up!) Anyway it was dead quiet – and not the kind of dead that worries me with Sherlock – so I figured he'd gone out on some case. Or, if I was really lucky, actual errands.

I checked the ground floor flat, just be sure. Sherlock's got some of his rubbish down there now, so you never know. Nope. Went upstairs, figured I'd watch some telly and have a beer.

When I got upstairs, there was this odd smell. That's not unusual either, but normally Sherlock's there to convince me that everything is completely fine, even if something's visibly on fire.

No sign of him.

I reckoned whatever he'd done had actually driven him out for some air (that'd be a first) and that he'd get home eventually. He always does.

Well, usually.

* * *

John pushed the kitchen window open wider, letting in the fresh air and the sounds of traffic and voices from below. Whatever caustic smell Sherlock had concocted began to fade more rapidly – or he was becoming used to it.

He was fairly certain Sherlock would let him know if the air in the flat was toxic, even if it meant copping to mucking up.

Of course, he'd never call it "mucking up" and would claim that it had all been deliberately planned – while carefully avoiding eye contact.

John grinned to himself, wondering what kind of excuses he'd hear when Sherlock finally surfaced. Depending on how dire the detective thought the situation was, there might even be dinner in it for him. He'd been planning on leftovers, but wouldn't turn down a free meal if Sherlock felt guilty enough.

A cold beer, a good programme on the telly, and the comfort of his chair made up for the tedious day at the clinic and the lack of his partner at home. John propped his feet up on Sherlock's chair – something he didn't dare do when the detective was there, because it earned him no end of complaints.

He let his attention wander, checking his email, scrolling through the new comments on his blog, taking his turn in a few online games he had going with friends. In spite of Sherlock's absence – or maybe because of it – the end of the afternoon was peaceful, and John felt himself relaxing, muscles unwinding as he slouched down in the chair, returning his attention to the television.

The half hour trickled by and when the programme had run its course, John pushed himself to his feet, tilting his head side to side. A grimace of relief at the crack down his vertebrae was compounded by the silence when the television was extinguished. He sighed – more contentment than anything – and padded into the bathroom to wash up before tackling the task of tracking down his wayward lover.

Another, heavier, sigh at the pile of towels dumped negligently on the worn linoleum. He scooped to retrieve them and made a disgusted noise – they were nearly sodden. All of them, even his.

 _What the hell were you doing?_ he asked his mental image of Sherlock, who, predictably, ignored him.

"Fine," John muttered, dumping the soggy towels in the tub to retrieve later for the laundry. They'd have to have a little talk about personal responsibilities when Sherlock got home – although he was sure it would fall on deliberately deaf ears.

He stepped into the hallway, intent on the linen closet, when the sharp creak of a floorboard stopped him cold, breath caught, turning instinctively toward the living room.

Silence washed back in. John held himself rigid, heart hammering with a useless adrenaline reflex, listening hard. There was no further sound and he strained his ears, trying to pick up on any hint of movement from the living room – then realized the sound had come from above.

If someone was going to break into the flat, surely they wouldn't bother climbing all the way to his old bedroom? Much easier to break in through a window on the ground floor flat – and both he and Sherlock would be far less likely to notice that intrusion.

It was an old house, he reminded himself. It shifted and settled and groaned and squeaked. He was used to hearing it – but also used to not giving it much attention.

There was something about this that didn't feel like the house making itself comfortable, but like breath was being held that wasn't his own.

John turned his eyes to the ceiling; he hadn't checked up there, had he?

The towels were awfully wet for Sherlock to have been gone long.

John pursed his lips, wondering if Sherlock was gone at all.

In stockinged feet, he crept up the stairs, taking the time to shift his balance carefully and avoid the spots that would give him away. If Sherlock was up there, he was probably straining his hearing as hard as John had just been, and hoping like hell he wouldn't be found out.

Despite himself, John felt a twinge of amusement curling the corners of his lips as he pushed the door open, eyes sweeping over the recumbent figure buried under the duvet and the pillows in his old bed.

* * *

I've seen Sherlock hide before. On cases he can be like a ghost, fading into the shadows or the background so you'd hardly notice him. He can move so stealthily and silently that you won't know he's there until he's right behind you, breathing down your neck. He can slip in and out of places undetected, leaving no trace of himself, vanishing like a mist.

This wasn't any of those things.

This was him stuffed under a bunch of pillows and a duvet, making condescending noises when I pointed out that we have a perfectly good bed downstairs if he fancied a nap.

I'm not genius (Sherlock will be the first to agree) but it wasn't too hard to put the pieces together. When he freed up an arm to hold the pillows down over his head, it was bare, so he was naked (sorry), which meant he'd come straight up here from the shower, which meant I caught him in the act of whatever he was trying to cover up when I came home.

You'd think it wouldn't be too hard to pull the pillows off of someone lying down.

* * *

They ended up in a heap on the floor, blankets and all, both of them breathing hard, and Sherlock with a pillow still firmly clasped over his head like a helmet. Wet curls plastered to his skin imprinted moisture on the cotton, and the detective shuffled against the wall, sheets and duvet slipping to give John a rather distracting view.

He ignored it, sitting on his heels, palms resting on his thighs.

"Sherlock," John said, letting a warning note slip into his voice, earning a glower in return, "what did you do?"

"I had a shower then wanted a nap," Sherlock sniffed. "I didn't know this was reason enough to be assaulted in my own home."

"Bollocks," John replied. "The kitchen smells suspiciously of an experiment gone wrong, and all the towels are soaking."

"It was a long shower," Sherlock said. "I was very wet when I got out." John rolled his eyes; the expression went ignored as usual.

"What did you do to your hair?"

"I haven't done anything to my hair," Sherlock snapped, grip tightening on the pillow.

"You've just decided that a pillow makes a good fashion accessory?"

"Better than the death Frisbee hat," Sherlock muttered.

"You might as well tell me now. You know you're going to have to eventually. Better get it over with."

"It's fine," Sherlock muttered, slouching down further.

"Yes, I can see that," John replied, lips twitching into a grin that made Sherlock's expression even darker. "Let me look." He slid a hand over one of his partner's, feeling the jut of tendons as Sherlock's fingers curled more tightly into the pillow. A brief shake of Sherlock's head made John sigh, rubbing a thumb over the bony ridges of knuckles.

"Sherlock."

He waited; Sherlock's eyes darted away and down, defeat flickering over his features. Reluctantly, he released his grip enough to let John ease the pillow away, and the doctor felt his eyes go wide, muscles slackening with shock.

"What the _hell_ did you do?"

* * *

And I don't know, because he won't actually tell me what it is. But imagine a kid with gum stuck in his hair. Now imagine that kid is a fully grown adult man. And then imagine that fully grown adult man is Sherlock Holmes.

You get the picture.

Whatever it was, it wasn't coming out.

I had to shave all of his hair off.

* * *

"Absolutely not," Sherlock snarled.

"Sherlock, we've run through every kind of cleaning agent we can use that won't corrode your skin and a dozen different concoctions of your own. It's like cement."

"It's not cement," Sherlock said with a stubborn tilt of his chin, still refusing to meet John's eyes.

"Will you tell me what it is?" John asked. The detective scowled, slumping down further into the bath water, turning his face deliberately toward the wall. With a sigh, John sat back, letting dripping hands hang over the side of the tub.

"We can't just cut it out," he pointed out. "You'll have two gaping holes."

"I'm sure I can–"

"What, style over it? Sherlock, it's three bloody inches across. In two places! You can't just fuss with the hair around it. Too much of the space won't _have_ hair around it."

"I'll wear a hat."

"For months? Until it's grown out?"

"It can't be that bad, John."

"You spent an hour trying to wash it out before I came home. We're just spent another… forty minutes on it. It's not going _anywhere_ , Sherlock. Plus I don't really want – whatever it is in our bed. Or to have to touch it."

"Oh, so this is about you, is it?"

John's lips quirked on one side as he gave his head a small shake. He wasn't as ignorant as Sherlock wanted to believe – at least about some things – and he knew how proud the detective was of his hair. No matter how much Sherlock acted otherwise.

He didn't blame Sherlock, and he certainly understood. John would never admit to it, not out loud, but he loved running his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Loved the feel, the texture, the length. The way fastidiously kept curls slid over his skin.

He did _not_ want to do that and run into a gunky mystery substance.

He'd miss Sherlock's hair. Rather a lot. But it would grow back.

"It'll grow back," he pointed out.

"Oh yes?" Sherlock snapped. "And what am I to do in the meantime?"

"What?" John asked. "You can't take cases if you haven't got hair?" Sherlock gave him a glare, but John had learned to recognize the nuances in each of Sherlock's very specialized glowers, and this was one of reluctant defeat.

"Get out and dry off," he said. "I'll get the clippers."

* * *

He told me in no uncertain terms I'm not allowed to post a picture, [so here it is](http://24.media.tumblr.com/114790b06511ef3416b13f8f720d5914/tumblr_n6qxt8CzVS1r5deedo1_1280.jpg).

And now he's having a good sulk in his favourite dressing gown in his chair, pretending I don't exist.

He made me save his hair, too. Not the gunky bits, of course. He's got some notion that it can be made into a wig. I told him he looks good bald but that just made him glare more.

I think I'm going to keep this up until it's all grown back.

* * *

"At least you have a good head."

"What?" Sherlock demanded, raising said head to meet John's gaze with a sharp glare.

"A good head," John repeated. "Good shape, and your ears don't stick out."

"Let me see." He dislodged John by standing up, and scrutinized himself in the mirror, turning his head this way and that, features screwed in disapproval. John took momentary pity on him; this wasn't just annoyance, but genuine displeasure.

He ran a hand over the dark, downy fuzz that remained, resisting Sherlock's attempts to shake him off.

"Don't," Sherlock snapped, a hand closing around John's wrist as he moved to bin the old towel that had collected most of his hair. He stiffened, as if realizing the action he'd just taken, shoulders tense, chin slightly raised in defiance.

"I'll just find something to put it in, then," John said. "Relax, you look fine."

"If by 'fine' you mean a complete and utter twit, yes."

"You're right," John agreed with mock surprise. "I'll have to stop sleeping with you."

"John!"

"You play dead for nine months and you think a little thing like this is going to put me off?"

"It's not little," Sherlock huffed – but looked slightly mollified, managing to preen a little bit without actually moving.

 _Typical_ , John thought.

"Why don't we order take away?" he suggested. "You can put off anyone seeing you for at least a day."

"If we must," Sherlock sighed.

* * *

Take this down right now.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 2 June

Not a chance.  
**John Watson** 2 June

John!  
**Sherlock Holmes** 2 June

I like it. Good look for you.  
**Greg Lestrade** 2 June

How do I unsee?  
**Sally Donovan** 2 June

Everyone needs a change once in awhile :)  
**Molly Hooper** 2 June

I have an urgent case I need to discuss with you. Will be there within the hour.  
**Mycroft Holmes** 2 June

Molly, I may need more hair for the wig. If any of your corpses have similar hair, save it for me. Mycroft, piss off.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 2 June

That's quite a change.  
**Anonymous** 2 June

John, I will withhold sex if you don't take this down.  
**Sherlock Holmes** 2 June

You _do_ know we can all read that, right?  
**Sally Donovan** 2 June

Don't make me bin your hair.  
**John Watson** 2 June


	2. Brotherly love

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

2 June

Brotherly Love

Just to clarify, Mycroft: coming over for the sole purpose of gloating only proves that you _are_ jealous of his hair.

 

HA!  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 2 June

Don't be tedious, Sherlock.  
 **Mycroft Holmes** 2 June

I knew it!  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 2 June


	3. Too Much of a Good Thing

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

10 June

Too Much of a Good Thing

He takes the longest showers of any bald man I've ever met.

 

I'm not bald.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 10 June

* * *

"Are you in the habit of measuring how long other men spend in the shower?"

John paused, peering over Sherlock's shoulder at the tiny phone screen displaying his latest blog post.

"I was in the army," he replied, folding his arms to rest on the back of the chair, earning a side-long glower. "And a trauma surgeon. Showering's not exactly a private activity. Or a long one."

"I have a very vivid imagination, John. Please don't feed it with images of you showering with other men."

"Are you jealous?" John asked, grinning at the alarm at being caught out that widened Sherlock's eyes momentarily.

"Hardly."

" _You're_ the one talking about me showering with other men," John pointed out, shifting himself enough to run a palm over Sherlock's head, feeling the prickle of stubble against his skin. He flexed his fingers, drawing his nails across the detective's scalp, and if he hadn't known it wasn't humanly possible, he would have sworn Sherlock purred.

"Stop distracting me," his partner growled, voice pitched low, full of promising menace.

"Now why would I do that?" John murmured, turning his head just enough for his breath to brush Sherlock's ear. "I think you need distracting from this frankly bizarre fantasy."

"It's not a fantasy," Sherlock said, tilting his head slightly as well, tongue darting out to wet his lips – deliberately, John knew.

"Showering in the same room separated by stalls is hardly _with_ someone," John pointed out, tracing around the outline of Sherlock's other ear with his fingertips before switching back to short nails along the base of his skull. "You used to shower with the door open all the time before we started showering together."

"It wasn't _all_ of the time, John," Sherlock retorted, and John didn't bother repressing a grin at the correction. "I was trying to make a point – although it fell on a rather inobservant mind."

"Must've been thinking about other things," John replied.

"And what are you thinking of now?" Sherlock growled.

"You're the genius detective. You have your methods. Use them." Grey eyes flickered over his face, lips slightly parted, and John had to resist the temptation to taste them.

"You went shopping the other day." John raised an eyebrow but nodded – he knew Sherlock; this was going somewhere. Hopefully somewhere he wanted it to go. "Not your usual errands – the bag contained a small box, rectangular and thin. You said it was for Harry's birthday."

"I did say that," John murmured in agreement.

"Harry's birthday isn't for six months."

"Maybe I found her the perfect gift."

"A scarf box, John. By the size and shape, not a thick scarf. Harry only wears winter scarves."

"Maybe she's changed her style. Or _maybe_ I know someone who knows silk has a very high tensile strength and happens to like the way it feels." He watched Sherlock's Adam's apple bob and felt his own body respond, keeping up the slight scratch of his nails on Sherlock's head, tracing absent patterns.

"Do you really?" Sherlock asked.

"Mm," John agreed. "And he's very keen on the repeated testing of hypotheses. Like a good scientist ought to be. Do you think perhaps he'd like to start testing this?"

"Oh, I think he would," Sherlock replied, and John recognized the slightest hitch in his voice only from experience. "Very much, in fact."

"Well then," John murmured, Sherlock's lips parting more, pupils dilating as he leaned forward, not quite bringing them together, "let's get started, shall we?"


	4. Not As Tall As People Think

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

25 June

Not As Tall As People Think

I think the lack of hair makes him look shorter.

Thoughts?

 

Shorter!  
 **Harry Watson ** 25 June

Most definitely shorter.  
 **Amanda Hassard ** 25 June

Shorter  
 **Sarah Sawyer ** 25 June

Shorter. Pity.  
 **Anonymous ** 25 June

Shorter but somehow saner. Optical illusion?  
 **Sally Donovan** 25 June

The same as always :)  
 **Molly Hooper** 25 June

My height hasn't changed despite of the length of my hair. John, why are only women commenting on this?  
 **Sherlock Holmes ** 25 June

Well, except anonymous.  
 **John Watson** 25 June

Balance of probability given the higher percentage of women in the world, John. Didn't you train as a doctor?  
 **Sherlock Holmes ** 25 June

Yeah, shorter.  
 **Greg Lestrade ** 25 June

Shorter. Sorry, mate.  
 **Mike Stamford ** 25 June

He always did think himself taller than he really is.  
 **Mycroft Holmes ** 25 June

Don't you people have better things to do?  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 25 June


	5. Wigging Out

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

26 June

Wigging Out

Really, please stop sending him wigs. I’m worried he’s going to start wearing them.

 

Struggling for titles now, aren’t you? And you’re behind on writing up the cases.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 26 June

My titles are brilliant thank you very much.  
 **John Watson** 26 June

Nope. **  
Sherlock Holmes** 26 June

Anyway you always complain in the case posts that I’m making stuff up and not sticking to the facts.  
 **John Watson** 26 June

You _don’t_ stick to the facts, but the cases are much more interesting than your obsession with my hair.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 26 June

Lack of hair.  
 **John Watson** 26 June

I’d rather see you model the wigs.  
 **Greg Lestrade** 26 June

I bet some of them would look rather good.  
 **Anonymous** 26 June

Don’t encourage him.  
 **John Watson** 26 June

Me? Lestrade, don’t encourage _him_. He’ll only try and take photos.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 26 June

Although I may keep some of them for cases.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 26 June


	6. The Maberley Case At 3 Gables Close

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

3 July

The Maberley Case At 3 Gables Close

Since John clearly can’t be bothered illuminating you with actual cases (not to mention how long it takes him to type anything with his hunt-and-peck typing – honestly it’s worse than his handwriting), I’m taking it upon myself – despite the obvious and dire need for my services – to provide you with at least some modicum of education.

We were contacted, eleven days ago, by a client, Marianne Maberley, whose recent loss of sibling was obvious by her clothing and comportment. It’s always very tedious when people sit in the chair and cry, but I was initially keen because one never knows when there will be a really interesting murder. Unfortunately, Maberley’s brother died of very natural causes (although John claims a moped collision with a bus in Rome is _not_ natural, it’s not murder, unless stupidity is now grounds for a murder charge, which would certainly make my life far more interesting).

Ms. Maberley’s brother, the late Brian Maberley, had been working in a private industry foreign posting in Rome for several years. According to the client, he died two weeks prior to her visiting us, and I immediately suspected the death and the visit were linked, if only indirectly.

Indeed, in the intervening time, Ms. Maberley, who owns number three, Gables Close (a truly depressingly suburban area of London, I strongly recommend not wasting your time on a visit), was approached by a real estate solicitor interested in buying her property. Since her brother’s death ensured that her current income was suddenly supplemented with a rather generous life insurance pension, she was hardly in need of the money to be gained from such a sale.

Still, she enquired as to how much was being offered – based on her personal habits, such as nervously straightening the cuffs of her blouse or twisting the rather cheap ring on her middle finger – I deduced this question was not one of shrewdness but of surprise. More surprising was the fact that the buyer – whom the solicitor insisted remain anonymous – was offering a full quarter more than the property is currently worth and was also willing to pay handsomely for the house to come furnished.

It was a laughably simple deduction to make that something _in_ the house must have been of a value, and that its presence was likely unknown to her. When pressed, Maberley admitted that she had nothing she would consider so valuable – the most costly items she owned were jewellery – and nothing that warranted the sudden purchase of her home.

She declined, of course, and came straight to Baker Street (the wisest course of action). The timing suggested that the object of interest had belonged to her brother, and she did admit that his possessions had recently arrived from Rome following his funeral.

A quick trip to the abysmal area secured us both the late Mr. Maberley’s laptop and mobile phone. Upon returning to Baker Street, it was a ridiculously simple matter to discover that Brian Maberley had been having an affair with a Ms. Isobel Klein, who finds herself employed in the same industry as Mr. Maberley but for a fierce competitor. (A note to any of John’s readers who are contemplating attempting this type of deception: really, don’t be so obvious about it).

The purchase of Marianne Maberley’s entire house and her possessions seemed a dramatic step, however, so I ignored John’s suggestion that we go speak to Ms. Klein and returned us to Gables Close, where we discovered the house had been broken into and our client struck unconscious by a blunt object – likely the butt of a gun – to the back of the head. The burglars (two men of approximately average height, given the disturbance at the scene and the way in which Maberley had been attacked) had attempted to find something among Mr. Maberley’s belongings, but had been forced to flee when a neighbour reported suspicious activity to the police.

John’s more clever readers (but oddly enough, not John himself) will be asking themselves why a woman carrying out an affair with a business rival would risk being found out through emails and text messages, and why she wouldn’t simply approach Marianne Maberley under the guise of being an associate who needed to reclaim proprietary information.

This is, of course, because Isobel Klein had nothing to do with the affair, nor, in fact, was there an affair at all. The obvious answer (please take note, John) was that there was further information secreted in Mr. Maberley’s belongings and it didn’t require too much effort or creativity to find the hidden, handwritten, and coded letters between Brian Maberley and Ms. Klein’s husband, David Hardwick.

The code was simple enough to crack, and revealed that Hardwick had been stealing sensitive corporate information from his wife and selling it to Brian Maberley, who was then splitting the rather substantial profits with his illicit partner. My statement to the police and the Crown Prosecutor cleared Ms. Klein of any wrongdoing and has doubtlessly secured Hardwick several enjoyable years as a guest of the crown.

And all of this happened without any discussion about my hair.

 

Sherlock! Stop hijacking my blog!  
 **John Watson** 3 July

Brilliant work, mate!  
 **Mike Stamford** 3 July

Clever, as always.  
 **Molly Hooper ** 3 July

What he’s not telling you is that he got stuck in a window trying to prove to a PC how the burglars got in in the first place.  
 **John Watson** 3 July

I wasn’t stuck. I was making a point about why that particular window wasn’t suited for entry.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 3 July

What station were they out of? Do they have pictures?  
 **Greg Lestrade** 3 July

And your titles need some work, Sherlock.  
 **Greg Lestrade** 3 July

What’s wrong with the title? It conveys the major participants and the location of the case.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 3 July

Needs to be something snappier.  
 **Greg Lestrade** 3 July

I’d have called it “The Three Gables”.  
 **John Watson** 3 July

That makes absolutely no sense, John. The house hardly had a name, and there weren’t three gables on it. Where do you come up with these things? It’s just getting worse as you get older.  
 **Sherlock Holmes ** 3 July

It’s catchy.  
 **John Watson** 3 July

It’s nonsensical.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 3 July

Sorry, John, he has a point.  
 **Anonymous ** 3 July

The DCI there just emailed me. Said to pass on his thanks again. You saved him from a major headache.  
 **Greg Lestrade** 3 July

Of course I did.  
 **Sherlock Holmes ** 3 July

Because he’s brilliant. Hair or no hair.  
 **John Watson** 3 July

* * *

 

“You really are, you know,” John said, clicking his phone off to set it on the bedside table.

“Brilliant?” Sherlock murmured, slouching down, making himself comfortable on the mess of pillows that had somehow never migrated from their bed even when John had stopped wearing his sling. “Yes, I know.”

“And a giant pain in the arse.”

“Thought you would have adjusted to that by now,” Sherlock replied, quirking an eyebrow as he glanced up from his own phone.

“Oi!” John protested, launching a pillow at him, but Sherlock was too quick, a fist curling into the downy fabric, tugging John off balance. The doctor struggled to regain control; Sherlock wrestled it from him until the pillow was squashed between them and they were nose-to-nose, breathing hard.

“If you’d wanted me on top of you, you only had to say so,” John murmured. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a challenging glint in his grey eyes. The doctor shifted, making himself more comfortable, and Sherlock accommodated him by moving a long leg, deliberately sliding it down the length of John’s until he could hook their ankles loosely.

“You missed something on your blog.”

“Did I?” John asked.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed, and John felt the reverberations faintly through the pillow still wedged between them. “‘Brilliant’ isn’t nearly descriptive enough – and far too commonly used. It needs a qualifier.”

“Does it now?”

“It does,” Sherlock murmured in reply.

“Amazingly brilliant,” John said. Sherlock only raised his eyebrows, giving a slight shrug.

“Better,” he admitted. John shifted his shoulders slightly as Sherlock trailed fingertips up his spine to the base of his skull, then focused on the back of his neck. Light movements, almost not there.

“Astonishingly brilliant,” John said, brushing their lips together, letting them linger briefly.

“Mm, I do like astonishing,” Sherlock said, fingers moving through John’s hair to trace the outline of an ear. “Still…”

“Unbelievably brilliant.” The pillow was worked out from between them and tossed to the floor. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered as John settled more closely, and the doctor swallowed carefully, dipping his head to brush his lips over Sherlock’s neck.

“I think rather a lot of people believe it,” Sherlock commented, voice low, taking on a familiar warmth. “No thanks to your blog.”

“It’s all thanks to my blog,” John murmured in reply, dotting kisses along Sherlock’s jaw, shifting when the detective did, giving him enough space to open the nightstand drawer. The lube was passed to him; John dropped it within easy reach.

Hands skimmed under his t-shirt, pushing it up, and John hunched his shoulders enough to pull it off.

“No one wants to read about identifying ash or perfume,” he murmured, finding Sherlock’s lips in another slow kiss. “Or fabric strengths.”

“Of course they do,” Sherlock replied, fingers brushing over bare skin now. John released him long enough to get his t-shirt off, letting it join its companion on the floor. “It’s informative.”

“It’s not sexy,” John said.

“Do you want other people to think I’m sexy?” Sherlock asked. A smile stretched across John’s lips; he felt a twitch of an answering one in their kiss.

“I can’t stop them,” he murmured.

“You’re getting off track,” Sherlock warned.

“Sexily brilliant,” John replied as they both squirmed out of their pyjamas pants, the sigh from Sherlock’s lips gusting against John’s skin as they settled naked bodies together, shifting minutely for more contact.

“I don’t think that’s a word,” Sherlock said.

“Indescribably brilliant.”

“You describe it on– _mm_ –” Sherlock tipped his head back; John followed it, catching the soft moan in a kiss as he slid a slick finger into his partner. “On a regular basis,” Sherlock managed as John stroked in and out slowly, relaxing the muscle enough to slide a second finger in.

“Do I?” John murmured.

“You try,” Sherlock replied, and John smiled when the detective bit his lip, eyelids fluttering when crooked fingertips brushed his prostate.

“Extraordinarily brilliant,” he said, scissoring gently, relishing the way Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobbed, the way fingertips tightened, digging into his back.

“Much better.”

“Shockingly brilliant.” Grey eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze again, warm and dark, and John kissed him again, slowly, teeth scraping gently over Sherlock’s bottom lip. “Stunningly brilliant.”

He rested their foreheads together, watching the faint flutters of pleasure, feeling more than hearing the quiet gasp as he pushed in gently.

“Spectacularly brilliant.”

“Oh, I like that one,” Sherlock murmured, arching slightly as John set a slow pace.

“You,” John said, kissing Sherlock again, softly, letting lips linger as he moved, as long legs hooked over his, encouraging him to push deeper without any other demands, without impatience. “You are the best and wisest man I’ve ever known.”

A surprised smile twitched at the edges of Sherlock’s lips, the kind he wore when caught by an unexpected compliment.

“I could say the same of you,” he murmured, eyes dropping closed as John adjusted his angle slightly.

“Maybe you should,” John replied, aware he was beginning to sound breathless. Sherlock opened his eyes again, right hand curling around John’s left shoulder, always mindful of the scars, the other lacing into John’s short hair.

“I love you, John.”

John swallowed, kissing Sherlock hard, letting it soften when Sherlock’s mouth led him away from the sudden intensity. Foreheads rested together when they broke apart slowly, lips still so close they were almost touching, sharing hot breath as they moved against each other, the sight of Sherlock’s lower lip caught by white teeth tightening the pressure building in his groin.

“I know,” John managed. “I love you, too.”


	7. Hat Trick

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

5 July

Hat Trick

He tried on the hat today.

Looks like a right twit.

 

A picture is worth a thousand words.  
 **Anonymous 5** July

Please do not encourage John to write a thousand words about the hat.  
 **Sherlock Holmes ** 5 July

He was too quick. I’ll try and get one when he’s sleeping.  
 **John Watson** 5 July

I know countless ways to murder a man in his sleep and make it look natural.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 5 July

Probably best not to say that online, especially since there are police officers who read this.  
 **John Watson** 5 July

Lestrade, you didn’t see this. Nor you, Amanda.  
 **Sherlock Holmes** 5 July

Remember my first name and you’ve got a deal.  
 **Greg Lestrade** 5 July


	8. Untitled Post

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

13 July

Untitled Post **Personal Post (Unpublished)**

It's long enough again.

* * *

Fingers curled, short nails biting into the upholstery of the chair. Fighting the urge to move, struggling to keep his hands where he'd been told. Head tipped all the way back, eyes screwed shut. Breath coming in desperate gasps, whimpers incompletely stifled by teeth digging into his lower lip.

He wanted to look down but it would undo him, end it all too soon. If he could even see around the dark haze accentuated by the ache in his muscles as they resisted the urge to move, to thrust into the mouth causing the even sharper ache in his groin.

Picturing it was bad enough – himself completely naked – exposed – in his chair, Sherlock on his knees on the rug, purple shirt unbuttoned, palming himself through black trousers. The image made John groan, fingers twitching, wanting to entwine into Sherlock's short hair, push him down, fuck his mouth.

Balanced on a knife's edge where Sherlock loved to keep him, mouth and tongue working like they'd been made for this, and John didn't know how and wasn't surprised by the fact that a man who made such caustic, cutting comments could be so good at this kind of torture.

He wanted it to end, his whole body hot and tense, the smell of sweat and sex assailing his nostrils – but oh god he wanted it to go on forever and risked a desperate glance down, swallowing hard when Sherlock met his gaze, grey eyes dark with wide pupils, lips swollen when he pulled away to lick them slowly.

"Jesus," John managed, word slurred, and the smile that crept over his partner's lips had him fighting for the last ounces of control. John squeezed his eyes closed again, head falling back, when Sherlock sucked on a full, heavy testicle, pressing his thumb deeply into the other.

A strangled sound – he didn't even know what to call it – and he thought he was done, but Sherlock eased off, giving him a few precious seconds of reprieve before swallowing him again, tongue stroking and teasing.

"Sherlock– please– ohgodplease–"

There was an answering hum, the shock of pleasure reverberating through John's body, and Sherlock dipped his head, sucking hard. John fisted a hand into his hair, short curls catching between his fingers, not slipping free this time, and he tugged desperately, the only warning he could give in the split second before he pushed Sherlock down, coming with a shout barely restrained by gritted teeth.

Sherlock worked him through it mercilessly, until he was shaking but couldn't move, breathing coming only in whimpers. He groaned – relief and protest – when Sherlock pulled away, drawing a long stripe with his tongue. His hand was almost dislodged from Sherlock's hair, not quite, when the detective scrambled onto the chair. A fumbling hand was slapped away by more adept ones; John tried to keep up, fingers still fisted into Sherlock's hair, the other hand tracing – somewhat shakily – up and down a thigh as Sherlock thrust into his own fist, coming with a groan that was buried in the skin of John's neck.

They slumped together, harsh, mingled breathing slowing gradually, hands roaming with no urgency now. John ran Sherlock's short curls through his fingers over and over, the hum of approval vibrating against his skin.

"Shower?" John suggested, when he thought he could trust his voice again.

"Mm," Sherlock sighed. "Mm-mm."

"We have a client coming in half an hour."

Another sigh, this one put upon, and Sherlock drew back slightly.

"It won't take you long," John promised, pulling Sherlock toward him enough to drop a kiss on his nose. "And we haven't got anything schedule for this evening."

"Good," Sherlock murmured, tracing an index fingers across John's clavicle, bypassing the scars.

"Come on," John said. "I can finally wash your hair again."


	9. The First Cut

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

22 July

The First Cut

Sherlock got his first haircut since the incident today. He tried to sneak out and get it done on the sly, but he's not always as subtle as he'd like to think he is.

* * *

John looked up from his magazine, smiling, when Sherlock stopped abruptly, mid-stride, an aggrieved sigh slipping past his lips. Irritation flashed through grey eyes and John was sure that if Sherlock had been wearing his coat, he'd have flipped the collar up in self-defense.

"This is a coincidence," John said amiably.

"Hardly," Sherlock snapped. "This isn't your usual barber."

"Thought I'd switch. He does a good job on your hair, but you don't need it cut as often now."

"Nor do you," Sherlock pointed out dryly. "You had yours done not two weeks ago." John shrugged lightly, grinning, and the detective glowered, managing to slump somehow both gracefully and petulantly into the chair next to John.

"I thought I'd keep you company."

"You thought you'd come and smirk and gloat," Sherlock retorted.

"Mm, no, I'm not your brother. I'm very supportive of you growing your hair back."

Sherlock glanced at him, an eyebrow raised.

"I doubt that, given how much you blog about it." He shuffled his hands into his pockets to hunch his shoulders and dip his chin. "At least you're bound to get a scathing commentary on the butchery you performed."

* * *

The barber scolded Sherlock for not having come in a week ago, but I was complimented on how even a job I'd done. I'd worry about giving him some kind of complex, but the only complex Sherlock could ever have has got "superiority" tacked in front of it.

He got into constant trouble for slouching in the chair, which made him more irritated. I'm half tempted to take him to one of those kid's places next time. He was acting, well, like him – all moody and demanding and impatient and criticizing, the way he gets when he knows he's not getting his way.

Or at least he was until the cut was finished.

* * *

_Glowing_. It was the only word John could think of to describe Sherlock's expression – and one he certainly wasn't going to use on his blog. As it was, he had to keep his hands tucked into his jean pockets to displace the urge to run his fingers through those short, neat, dark curls. It surprised him how much Sherlock had actually needed the cut, and how much more like him he looked now.

He was preening silently, smug smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he paid – and tipped the barber what John might have considered an alarming amount under any other circumstances.

The detective insisted they walk back to Baker Street, a demand John knew had been made for no reason other than to drive him mad. No, he reconsidered, there was another reason – it was a beautiful day, which meant there were a lot of people about, which meant Sherlock was drawing a lot of looks. John was used to his partner getting attention – having an international reputation was a big part of it, but he knew that much of it was simply appreciative.

He knew Sherlock was aware of it, too. He ignored it often, used it to his advantage when it suited him, but now… he was revelling in it. Revelling in it, and making it obvious he knew John was aware of it and didn't care a whit that John knew.

John retaliated by lacing their fingers together – it was either that or snog him senseless on the pavement. Sherlock gave him a quizzical look, one eyebrow raised; they were cautious about public displays of affection, particularly given how popular Sherlock had proven himself to be with the media.

"Feeling a bit possessive?" Sherlock murmured.

"Not really," John said with a shrug, even though he knew full well that the action had given him away. "I just want to make absolutely sure everyone else understands they don't even have the teeniest chance whatsoever."

"Oh, well," Sherlock replied, a smile playing on his lips, lighting his grey eyes. "Not possessive in the least, then."

* * *

He seems more himself than he has done in the past couple months. I'm tempted to tell him about the psychology behind good hair days, but he's too busy fussing with his hair and admiring himself in the mirror.

He does look more like himself, though. It may be short, but it's definitely Sherlock hair again.

* * *

Sherlock landed in his chair with a faint grunt of surprise; John straddled him before he had time to catch up, tilting his head back until it was almost touching the cushion, and ran his fingers through short curls, feeling the slide of clean hair against his skin. Over and over until the meticulous styling was undone and Sherlock's hair was like a dark, soft halo around his head. John gave a quick tug; Sherlock caught his lower lip between his teeth, stifling a sound.

"Are you trying to ruin me?" he asked, and John swallowed against the dip and purr in his partner's voice.

"Yes. It is working?"

"Hardly."

He smiled into a kiss, feeling the stretch of lips in response before Sherlock opened his mouth, giving up control to John who seized it greedily, taking and taking until the urgency began to wear off, leaving a calmer warmth in its wake. Bodies shifted, easing closer as muscles relaxed, and John slowed their kiss without lightening it.

Fingers trailed into Sherlock's hair again, more gently this time, winding curls around digits, tugging lightly here and there with an index finger and thumb. Another smile twitched on Sherlock's lips in response, arms snaked around John's waist to let hands stroke up and down his spine.

"I think you owe me dinner," Sherlock commented when they pulled apart, foreheads resting together.

"I didn't know there was a charge for this," John replied, catching Sherlock's chin between a thumb and forefinger, kissing him again.

"You're the reason I haven't got any hair," Sherlock said, arching an eyebrow.

"No, you're the reason you haven't got any hair. Besides, you've got some now. Enough that you can start fussing with it in the bathroom for half an hour in the morning."

"I don't fuss," Sherlock sniffed. "And it doesn't take me more than fifteen minutes."

"It doesn't take you more than fifteen minutes once you've washed it, dried it, and done something with it," John agreed. "Then it's fifteen minutes of fussing to make it look like you don't have to put any effort into it. I'm not as inobservant as you think," he added when Sherlock shot him a glare that had no real bite to it.

"You really ought to apply that skill to other things."

"Mm…" John hummed, pulling back slightly, feigning an expression of concentration. "So you're saying you don't want me to pay attention to you."

"I want you to take me to dinner," Sherlock replied, tracing distracting little patterns on the small of John's back, "and you want to show me off. What's the expression? 'Win-win'?"

"You're the show off, not me."

"You're a show off when it comes to me," Sherlock corrected. John sighed but couldn't stop the grin that spread across his lips.

"All right," he conceded.

"I know a nice little place in Marylebone Road," Sherlock said, shifting his head slightly toward John's hand as the doctor ran short curls through his fingers again. "If I recall, they have some rather good champagne."

"As long as you promise to behave," John murmured.

"Now where," Sherlock asked, covering John's hand, turning his head enough to brush lips over John's palm, "would be the fun in that?"


	10. To Sherlock Holmes

The Personal Blog of

**Dr. John H. Watson**

7 August

To Sherlock Holmes **Personal Post (Unpublished)**

You terrify me sometimes.

Where would I be without you?

* * *

John undressed him outside the door to the ground floor flat, working as quickly as he could while being careful not to jostle or jar the detective. Sherlock huddled in on himself, hunched and cold – and in enough pain that it showed in his grey eyes.

Tending to his case-related injuries usually came with some ribbing and wry humour, but not this time. Sherlock looked abashed and miserable, and had that familiar defensive set to his muscles that braced him against teasing he couldn't tolerate.

John made sure to keep his touch tender without being patronizing – a very delicate line with Sherlock – and tried to keep his expression professional. He was sure some of the dismay shone through; it was hard, after all, to look at an injured person without feeling _something_ , harder still when it was someone he loved.

Even more so when it was Sherlock, who treated himself with such casual disregard.

He looked like he was regretting it now – but John knew that wouldn't last much past tonight.

"Come on, let's get you in the tub," he said, ignoring the trail of crimson droplets Sherlock was leaving on the floor. He pressed a wadded handful of toilet paper – it would do for now – against Sherlock's head, determined not to be bothered by the fact that it soaked through immediately. It was a minor laceration, but the bleeding did need to be stopped.

"Press here," he said, and Sherlock winced as he raised his arm. John did his best not to wince in sympathetic response.

"I'm going up to get my kit. I'll be right back."

Sherlock was where he'd left him when John clattered back down the stairs, still pressing the soaked tissue into his matted hair.

"Here," John said, switching it out for gauze. Grey eyes flickered his way, a mute thanks, but there was something else there, something he understood. Until the bleeding stopped, he wouldn't be able to assess what kind of care the wound needed.

"Can you sit?" he asked, and Sherlock sank stiffly onto the closed lid of the toilet. John kicked the bathroom door shut, trapping the steam from the water spilling into the tub, making it a bit warmer for his naked partner.

"I need to get you cleaned up." Plush lips pursed then released immediately, and Sherlock gave a small, pained sigh that bordered on a whimper. The bruise on his upper lip was already turning a violent purple, stained with blood from the accompanying cut and dried blood from his nose. John kept his own expression as neutral possible as he dabbed the blood away with a warm flannel.

"Don't tilt your head back," he warned as Sherlock tried to accommodate him. The detective settled, blinking his good eye; John wet another flannel, with cold water this time, and pressed it carefully against Sherlock's left eye. It was already swollen, and would probably be useless for a day or two come morning. The bruise had blossomed out to reach the faint mark left on his cheek from where Lestrade had punched him months ago.

Combined with the marks and bruises on his torso, he looked like a bad patchwork quilt.

It certainly wasn't the worst John had ever tended to when it came to his reckless partner, but he also knew Sherlock had been lucky. He'd been surprised by the attack, and had been badly out-numbered. He'd put up a good fight – he always did – but he'd had his arse handed to him, and if it hadn't been for Sally Donovan intervening with what had apparently been a few well-placed blows, it would have been a lot worse.

He probably should have gone to the A&E, but he would have fought that, too, and a careful examination – accompanied by hisses and winces – satisfied John that ribs were bruised but not broken.

"Let's get you in," John said. Sherlock stood, teetered, and John steadied him hurriedly, passing fingertips over bare skin to check for a fever. There were no protests or immediate reassurances, which sat poorly with the doctor.

It probably hurt Sherlock to talk, but that wasn't the only thing stopping him.

"Let me have a look," John said once the detective had submerged his long body into the steaming water as much as he could. He eased the gauze away from Sherlock's skin, loosening it with water to avoid restarting the bleeding, and cleaned the wound gently.

Sherlock was holding himself still, fingers wrapped around the porcelain edges of the tub, white knuckles contrasting starkly with the reddened marks and scratches on the backs of his hands.

"Okay," John said, and Sherlock let out a long, slow breath, good eye dropping closed. "I need to give it a few stitches to keep it closed, and I'll need you to hold your hair down. Can you do that?"

A brief nod, and Sherlock's hands came up, but John covered them gently, giving a light squeeze.

"Give me a minute." Waiting for the topical analgesic to take effect gave him time to get the needled threaded, but even with the area around the cut numbed, Sherlock flinched lightly at each stitch. John did as little as possible, and didn't miss the sigh of relief when he finished.

"I'm going to get you some clothing. And towels," he added, realizing there were none down here. Sherlock gave a vague nod; John dropped a light kiss into short, dishevelled curls, relieved – for both their sakes – that he hadn't had to shave any of them off again.

When he came back down, Sherlock was completely submerged, bent knees sticking out, wet hair floating around his head like a short halo. He shifted slightly when John ran his fingers carefully through his hair, moving just enough to expose his face to breathe. John didn't bother with shampoo – Sherlock was too picky to use what remained down here, and John didn't want to get soap in the fresh cut anyway.

When he'd cleaned the blood out, Sherlock sat up again, unable to stifle a groan. He swallowed ibuprofen obediently, and let John help him out of the tub to be patted dry.

Cotton pyjamas and the blue dressing gown were light enough to avoid anything more serious than a faint grimace, which John thought came more from moving than from fabric on damaged skin. He didn't help Sherlock up the stairs, but stayed close behind, alert for any unsteadiness. Sherlock slouched onto the couch, petulant and sulking, but John could have earned a whole degree in reading his strops – he was angry and embarrassed, but only with himself.

Sherlock took a cup of tea but didn't drink it, holding the mug close to his face to let steam waft over the bruises and cuts. John bent to press a kiss on a relatively unscathed forehead, feeling the tensing of muscles beneath his lips, although Sherlock didn't protest or pull away.

His expertise extended to Sherlock's physical moods as well – when he wanted contact, when he could be convinced, when he wasn't remotely interested. And when physical connection was too much and he craved space the way he disdained it so completely in others.

John certainly understood that right now. Along with the embarrassment, there was a lot of pain. He changed and took himself up to his old bedroom, which had become something of a catch-all space – more so than the rest of the flat – and crawled into bed. Sherlock would do better sleeping on his own, and would feel more comfortable sleeping in the bed that had been his before it had been theirs. He needed rest more than reassurance, and John was happy to succumb to sleep, letting it rob him of the images of Sherlock's battered body.

* * *

He awoke in the middle of the night, half aware that he'd heard a distant creak at some point, an older noise, like a fading echo. There was an unexpected warmth in the hollow he'd created under the duvet, and a mild constriction. Sherlock's breath against his chest and neck, Sherlock's fingers entwined into his t-shirt. A leg hooked carefully between his, short curls just brushing his chin.

John lay still for a few moments, gauging whether or not he'd woken his partner, but Sherlock's breathing and body were relaxed, betraying no hint of altered awareness. With a slight smile in the darkness, John slid an arm carefully around the detective's waist, avoiding injured areas from memory, slipping his hand beneath the thin cotton of Sherlock's shirt. He closed his eyes again and let the familiar presence lull him back to sleep.

* * *

The bed was still warm the next morning, but uncomfortably so, and the fever John had checked for yesterday had materialized some time during the night. There was a sheen to the detective's pale skin, a faint wheezing in the breath that slipped in and out of swollen lips. John roused his partner, unable to suppress a wince at Sherlock's groan.

"Come on," he murmured, helping the detective out of bed and down the stairs, where he could tuck him on the sofa in the living room. Sherlock watched him, glassy-eyed and miserable, left eye swollen shut, face a brighter patchwork than the day before.

"Not bad," John said, reading the thermometer. A mild fever – not unexpected, but he'd have to keep a sharp eye on it. With a repressed sigh, he rung Sarah and begged out of work, guiltily aware of how lucky he was he could rely on her understanding. Half wondering how long it would last.

But there were other things to worry about, and he helped Sherlock sit up enough to drink some water. The glass against his lips was obviously uncomfortable, but John didn't think a straw – if they had any that weren't toxic from experiments – would be any easier.

"You owe Sally a thanks," he said. Sherlock sighed, the sound tinged with pain reflected on his features when he slouched down again.

"She might have been quicker," he muttered, closing his good eye.

"Yeah, right," John said, not quite under his breath. There wasn't much in the way of love lost between Sherlock and Donovan, but she was still a cop, and not the type to watch an innocent man be beaten.

A relatively innocent man.

Innocent of whatever crime they'd been investigating anyway.

John nipped down to the shops and got what he'd need to nurse Sherlock through the worst of it. It was easier to keep himself occupied, and there was enough to do to hold the doctor part of himself at the forefront. Sherlock consented to being fed warm chicken soup, to downing ibuprofen with flat ginger ale. John kept him in cool flannels, one on his forehead, another over his swollen eye. Got him into their bath for a better wash than the day before, and a very careful shave. Even with the straight razor Sherlock preferred, there were spots John had to avoid, or else risk opening sealing cuts. When the fever abated, it would drive Sherlock mad, but for now, the mostly smooth feeling would be enough.

He wrapped Sherlock in fresh pyjamas, thicker and heavier than the thin cotton he'd been wearing, and snuggled socks onto his feet. He didn't let Sherlock's lack of protest at that bother him, but tucked the detective under their duvet on the sofa, dimming the living room lights so Sherlock could sleep.

He tidied and cleaned to keep himself moving, to occupy a mind that threatened to distract him with a dozen _what if…_ scenarios, each more vivid than the last. He sent Donovan a heartfelt thank you text, mildly surprised when he received a short, polite _you're welcome_ in return. No sarcasm, no 'I told you so'.

He hoped she hadn't been injured, or at least not too badly.

He made a list of things that could be moved to the ground floor flat, cleaned the kitchen, changed their bedding, showered, tidied his portion of the desk without disturbing any of Sherlock's incomprehensible organizational system.

"John."

The faint sound from across the room made him stop, eyes flickering up, assessing rapidly. Sherlock hadn't moved, except for the hand that had snaked out from under the duvet, fingers limp but almost beckoning.

"What do you need?" John asked, closing the space quickly, dipping into an easy crouch.

"Stop." It was little more than a sigh as Sherlock opened his good eye.

"Stop what?" John asked.

" _Worrying_."

For a moment, John could only stare, eyes widening, stunned.

"You get yourself beaten half to death and you want me to stop worrying?" he asked.

"Not half," Sherlock murmured. "Maybe an eighth."

John rolled his eyes, rocking back onto his heels, and Sherlock's lips twitched into a slight smile despite the bruises and cuts on his lips.

"The stress will weaken your immune system, leaving you susceptible to infection, not to mention that the tension will aggravate your shoulder."

"Sorry, _you're_ lecturing _me_ on taking care of my health?"

"One of us needs to be in good working order," Sherlock replied. John sighed, lacing his fingers with Sherlock's, pressing scraped knuckles against his lips.

"Better if we both are," he pointed out.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said, then winced when he shifted slightly. "In a day or two."

_And when it takes longer than that?_ John asked himself, lips pursed. _When you don't bounce back so fast or so well or you end up in hospital?_

"Don't write me off so quickly," Sherlock said, voice a little breathless, but not lacking the wry confidence John associated so thoroughly with him.

"Not a chance," John replied.

"Besides, I'm in good hands. At least, I want to be." Sherlock lifted the duvet and John raised his eyebrows.

"We don't fit well on the sofa at the best of times," he pointed out.

"We fit very well," Sherlock countered. "But perhaps not right now. Bed, John."

With a sigh, John helped his partner to unsteady feet, bundling the duvet in his free arm. Sherlock padded into their bedroom with John right behind him, not quite able to restrain the relieved groan when he settled onto the mattress. John checked his temperature again, satisfied that the fever was on its way down, and covered him carefully with the duvet.

"The point was for both of us to be here," Sherlock sighed, and John couldn't quite repress the grin.

"You'd think the fever would dampen that impatient-arse tendency just a bit," he commented, shucking his jeans and jumper, exchanging them for a t-shirt and sweatpants. "And you can stop that."

"No harm in looking," Sherlock murmured, tilting his head back to track John's movements when the doctor slid in next to him. John leaned down for a light kiss, mindful of the discomfort, then bundled Sherlock carefully to him.

"Sleep," he said, dropping a kiss into short, dark curls.

"What about you?" Sherlock asked, voice already drowsing.

John snorted, a smile spreading over his lips.

"Fine time to start worrying about someone else," he commented. "I'll be fine. Just sleep."

* * *

He'd left his laptop where Sherlock would see it, trusting in the detective's inherent inability to understand the term 'privacy'.

There were some things he couldn't say, no matter how hard he tried to find the words. They would fill his lungs until he was unable to breathe around them, but get stuck on his lips, never voiced – then Sherlock would give him a look that read it all, and the feeling would evaporate, leaving him reeling in oxygen and relief.

Still, there were some things that needed to be said, even if they weren't spoken out loud.

When John got home from work, Sherlock was immersed in an experiment in the ground floor flat, but John's computer was on the desk upstairs, the unpublished blog post open on the screen.

* * *

_There is nowhere for me that is without you. SH._


End file.
